New Age
by stephanieebrown
Summary: AU In which Dick gets a bullet lodged in his spine and winds up paralysed. The road to recovery is a treacherous one and honestly? He's been all for abandoning the journey at least a dozen times ever since it began. Series of one-shots.
1. beginning

**Author's Note: So this is something I started writing a while back because it really intrigued me and once I started writing I couldn't stop. This is by far the longest one-shot I've ever written and I hope that the effort put into it make for a good story.**

* * *

_'Our greatest weakness lie in giving up. The most certain way to succeed is always to try just one more time.' - Thomas Alba Edison_

* * *

By now the Team should accept that no 'strictly covert' mission will ever remain so.

"It's simple," Batman had said, "get in, get out."

Who was he kidding?

The mission had been going relatively well, in Nightwing's opinion, until Kid Flash had tipped off the motion sensors trying to impress Blue Beetle.

Dick's not sure whether he should laugh or berate the kid when they get back to the Watchtower. Probably the former. He _was _seriously bored by the time alpha squad had called for back-up.

Rejoining the Team had probably been one of his better decisions. Almost a full year after Wally's..._ceasing_ was certainly enough time for him to get his act together. Well, that's what he tells himself anyway.

Dodging a poorly aimed kick to his solar plexus, Nightwing brings an eskrima stick down to the back of the thug's neck, successfully rendering him unconscious. Bad guys are streaming out of the warehouse in waves and Dick wonders why a small-time arms-dealer in Blüdhaven has so many guards. Shaking his head, Dick flips over another balaclava-clad goon and uses his full weight to kick him forcefully to the hard ground before bringing his elbow back and connecting it to the forehead of another two-bit thug, knocking both men unconscious in seconds.

Smirking, Nightwing takes a second to glance around and take in the carnage that the Team have wrought on the bad guys. Alpha squad, Kid Flash, Robin, Tigress and Blue Beetle, work together flawlessly and efficiently. Beta squad - his own squad - consists of him, Batgirl, Lagoon Boy and Superboy. He'd like to say that they're working as well as Alpha but instead he's questioning Kaldur's decision to put Conner and La'gann in the same squad for the umpteenth time that night. The two have been 'competing' the whole time and have been grating on Nightwing's nerves like sandpaper on tender skin.

To his right, he spots Barbara taking out her opponents in droves and smiles. Her fighting has improved greatly over the years she's spent as Batgirl and the redheaded She-bat is a force to be reckoned with.

It's then that Nightwing notices the large masked-man looming behind his friend, large, silver gun in hand. _The Boss. _

Eyes widening, Dick doesn't think - he just does. Kicking down another thug, who has spung up in front of him, without a second thought, he puts his legs in motion, as if on automatic, and begins the sprint.

Batgirl has not yet noticed the impending danger - too caught up in the most recent swath of unfortunate souls who have the nerve to challenge her - and Nightwing's breath catches in his throat as he launches himself over downed men like he were hopping over dead soldiers on a battlefield. He races towards them - closing the distance, only mere seconds away now - when a flash of silver catches his eye and he sees the Boss draw his weapon. A panicked cry erupts, unbidden, from his throat.

"Batgirl!"

Barbara stops to look his way, notices where he himself is staring, and whirls around to face the arms-dealer. By that point, it is too late for her to jumps out the way - the asshole is ready to fire.

As if it were his one goal all along, Dick closes the distance between himself and Barbara as the Boss fires the guns. Forcefully, he pushes Batgirl to the ground, putting himself in the space she'd occupied moments before.

He hears a surprised cry as Barbara topples to the ground, before a searing pain, unmeasurable by anything else, rips through his abdomen. With a sharp, harsh cry, Dick curls inward from the impact of the bullet before tumbling to the ground.

He thinks he hears an outraged, feminine, shriek before a pained cry from a man but he isn't sure over the ear-splitting pain. It feels as though he's been impaled with solid fire before having thousands of needle-sharp knives embedded in his stomach. He coughs, a painful, gurgling and wet hack. Blood spills from his lips.

Time seems to slip away so by the time he sees Barbara and Conner's concerned faces it could have been seconds or maybe even hours.

No, not hours. There's no way he could possibly deal with the pain for that long.

Suddenly, he's being lifted up bridal-style by Superboy. The jolt of movement unleashes a wounded cry from his lips which dulls into a whimper as blood rushes from his throat.

"You're gonna be fine," Superboy assures him as he rushes to the bio-ship where a concerned Miss Martian awaits.

It's then that Dick realizes, through the unbearable haze, that everything below the area in his body leaking blood and agony is numb. Not like going-into-shock-numb, he's had that before and even through the pain Dick can tell this is not the same.

His unsteady breath hitches in his throat.

"Conner," he tries to say to the clone, but is comes out as more than a whisper.

He knows the clone hears him anyway and is frustrated when he is ignored.

"Conner!" he tries again, this time louder.

"What is it?" comes the reply after he is laid down on the bio-ship's med-table.

The pain almost becomes too unbearable to speak again but after swallowing a clot of blood, Nightwing looks up at Superboy fearfully.

"I can't feel my legs."

* * *

Conner makes his way to the Watchtower's med-bay silently. The quiet padding of M'gann's feet beside him thunder in his ears. Their last mission replays over and over in his mind.

Shame burns his cheeks and light's them aflame in colour. Even though he knows that there was nothing that he could have done (he had been neck deep in scumbags at the time) but seeing Nightwing collapse into a growing pool of his own crimson life-fluid is scarred permanently into his brain. Along with the survivor's guilt.

Currently, a week after the incident, the Team are still unaware of their former leader's condition.

Conner keep's reassuring himself that Nightwing will be fine - he's seen his friend injured and seconds from death far too many times than he would like (which is not at all if possible) - but Dick's last words before losing consciousness are stuck in his mind.

_"I can't feel my legs."_

The fear in his friend's voice echoes in his skull with fear of his own. _What did Dick mean by that? _

They've reached the medical ward and the two proceed in mutual anticipation to the viewing gallery where Conner knows Artemis and Kaldur are waiting for them. Once they get there, they're met with Aqualad, standing still like a statue, and a worried Tigress, biting her lip as she stares through the one-way glass.

Standing beside Artemis, Conner follows her gaze into the hospital room before him. A small wave of relief rushes through him like a wave as he sees Dick, maskless, in the only bed, most definitely awake.

"He's only been conscious about five minutes," Artemis informs him, as if reading his mind.

Soundlessly, he nods as he watches Dick converse with Batman, who is sat on the visitor's chair beside him. Conner cannot hear the conversation - the walls of the medical wing have been soundproofed against even himself and Clark (the whole patient confidentiality thing) - so he instead watches with growing dread as Dick's already sickly features blanch and he throws his arms around the (surprisingly) comforting Bat.

Conner places the amount of times he's seen the acrobat cry in the space where all the rarities he's witnessed go. He's seen him cry before - there was that particularly difficult time with Robin and Batman's constant arguments - the ones that eventually led him to become Nightwing - and Conner would never forget how devastated Dick had been after Jason died.

But he doesn't think he's ever seen him like this. The fighting had brought angry tears, and Jason's fate had seen an immense sadness before he had begun distancing himself from others. But now, Conner watches in alarm as Dick breaks down in his adoptive father's arms, silent sobs jarring his heart.

Conner can practically smell the fear.

A choking sound from behind him makes him turn finding M'gann with tears streaming down her face and green hands covering her mouth. Conner would reckon that she knows more than she's letting on.

Without uttering a word, he watches on as Batgirl rushes into the room, cowl down and face flushed. Barbara stands stock-still as a teary-faced Dick says something before her resolve crumbles and tears spill from her eyes. She rushes forward and embraces him tightly, whispering something into his ear. Next comes Tim, mask and all, who runs into the room and embraces his brother before any words can be spoken. When he is told something (presumably what has got the entire Bat family dissolving in tears) he rips of his mask and rubs furiously at his eyes before embracing Dick again. Reluctantly, Batman encircles his arms around his protégés and Conner would find the whole scenario touching if he weren't grinding his teeth in anxiety.

The wound wasn't..._that _bad was it?

It's another half-hour later before Conner finally enters the room. Batman had reluctantly managed to pry Tim and Barbara away to collect themselves, leaving Dick alone beneath the hospital sheets.

By the time that Conner has sat himself down in the chair which Batman had recently vacated, Dick's tears have dried but his eyes are red and puffy and he's taken to staring vaguely at the mirror (one-way window) directly before him.

The room remains completely silent for roughly five minutes before Dick finally speaks, his voice raw and hoarse.

"The bullet lodged itself into my spine," he says quietly, "paralyzing me from the waist down."

Conner feels as though he has forgotten to breathe for a moment, before suddenly he remembers and takes in a sharp gasp.

"Shit," he stutters, surprise evident in his voice because of all the possibilities _he was not expecting that._

"My thoughts exactly," Dick chuckles, but his laugh is bitter and without mirth.

Conner catches himself to stop from asking if his friend is okay because, obviously, he is most certainly not.

Silence resumes.

Conner chokes on it as if it is laced with kryptonite.

"Bye bye, Nightwing," Dick sighs, "bye bye acrobatics."

"I'm sorry," Conner says helplessly, because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Me too."

"Are you okay?" he asks despite himself.

"Not really."

"You will be though," Conner tells him, trying to sound comforting, "okay, I mean. Things'll get better, right?"

He cringes as he says it. He's never been spectacular at encouraging words or pep talks. Actually, that job had always been Dick's. Go figure.

"Thanks, Conner," Dick sniffles and Conner looks up from his hands to find him crying once more.

He doesn't think he's ever seen Dick look so devastated.

"...No problem," he says finally.

This is continued by another five minutes of silence before Conner decides he needs to excuse himself to punch something. Standing up, he is about to utter a goodbye to his friend before a hand shoots out and snaps around his wrist.

"Conner," Dick says, his voice wavering, "don't tell the Team. _Please._"

"I won't" he promises before exiting the room.

The door slides shut and, unable to take it anymore, he unleashes an animalistic roar and slams his fist through the closest wall. The outburst leaves a sizable dent but does little to soothe his raging emotions.

_It's just not fair._

* * *

It's been a month since Nightwing told the Team he couldn't be Nightwing anymore. A month since Dick Grayson has been wheelchair bound.

A month since the idiot has been wallowing in self-pity.

Artemis rings the magnificent doorbell to Wayne Manor. After Dick's apartment in Blüdhaven had been deemed un-wheelchair-worthy (the elevator was almost permanently out of use and his living space was just _too small _to navigate on wheels), he'd been forced to move back to the Manor temporarily.

He hadn't been happy about that.

Dick had been torn up enough by the fact that he couldn't leap from buildings in spandex and Kevlar anymore and things only got worse when he had to resign from the Blüdhaven PD and reveal his _predicament _to the press.

Queue wallowing in his room (pity-pad, Barbara had dubbed it) and refusing to come to terms with his new life.

Artemis is having none of that. It had been Dick who had slowly and patiently coaxed her out of her own self-pity and depression after Wally died. She'd be damned if she let the filthy hypocrite ignore his own advice any further.

The large door opens to reveal Alfred, a polite, welcoming smile on his face.

"Good morning, Miss Artemis," he greets, as formal as ever, "to what does Wayne Manor owe for the pleasure of your visit?"

Artemis smiles as she steps into the warm foyer - a comfortable contrast to the chilly air outside. She had moved back to Gotham after completing her studies at Stanford and had become a regular at the Manor and Batcave - which she is proud to have the privilege to be trusted with - having become a near constant amongst the Bats of the Gotham skyline. Even patrolling Blüdhaven every now and again as a female Nightwing (something she'd never get used to) to uphold Dick's only request of her (a request she had been honoured to fulfill).

"Just visiting today, Alfred," she says, "There's a long overdue chat I need to have with a certain oaf upstairs."

"Then I won't keep you any longer," Alfred smiles with a twinkle in his eye and a knowing glance.

With a smile, Artemis bids the butler goodbye before heading up the grand staircase and down the familiar hallway. Stopping outside the familiar mahogany door, Artemis raps loudly on the smart wood.

"Oi, Grayson," she calls out, her voice carrying, "I'm coming in in ten seconds so if you're naked, do something about it!"

There's a muffled snort from behind her and Artemis turns to find an amused Tim leaving his room. She ruffles his hair with a smirk and he complains, trying to free himself from her strong grasp.

Eventually, she frees him and he ducks to avoid another embrace and makes his way down the staircase.

"Good luck!" he calls with vanishing mirth "you're going to need it!"

Then, like a bat, he's gone.

Apprehension visibly forming on her brow, Artemis turns back to the door before banging on it again.

"I'm coming in!"

She doesn't get a reply. She wasn't really expecting one.

Opening the door, Artemis finds Dick (surprise, surprise) in bed. Where he's been the last four times she's visited. He rarely uses the wheelchair (which she knows he despises) that is situated next to the bed and there's a ghost of stubble on his face that has just begun to grow back.

"Hey there, Stranger," she greets with an amused smirk.

She collapses in the ornate armchair next to Dick's bed and dumps her bag on the floor.

"Hey, 'Mis," Dick murmurs.

So it's not all warm and cuddly but at least he's acknowledging her presence. That's a milestone in itself.

"What have you been up to?"

"Nothin' much."

Artemis raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Obviously."

Dick glances her way before sighing in frustration.

"I'm _fine, _Artemis, if that's why you're here."

"It's not," Artemis replies pleasantly.

She's grown used to Dick's _fun _new behaviour.

Curious, Dick pulls himself up so that he's half-sitting half-slumping and looks at Artemis where she sits. This gives Artemis the chance to give him the once over.

His face is gaunt, and Artemis knows that he hasn't been eating properly since the..._incident_ despite Alfred's efforts. The poor old man had asked Artemis to help with that. She's still unsuccessful as of yet.

At least he's sleeping. As Nightwing, she knew that his sleeping schedule was next to non-existent and he'd been working himself to the ground so at least he won't be tired anymore. The only problem is that all he's done for the past month is sleep. And wallow. And sleep again.

"Why are you here then?"

Grinning, Artemis reaches into her bag and withdraws a fancy camera her mother had scraped her funds together to buy her for her birthday.

"To re-create some memories."

Dick eyes the camera with suspicion before turning his nose up at it.

"I don't feel like it," he decides finally.

Artemis snorts.

"I don't care," she says firmly.

And she doesn't. Artemis has never been a wishy-washy kind of girl. She's strong, no-nonsense and passionate. This doesn't mean that she can't be kind or sympathetic - hell, Wally had managed to transform her into something _squishy _beneath her hard exterior over the years they'd been together - but she's still Artemis. Still the girl raised by her mercenary father, trained to kill a man in ten different ways before she was ten years-old.

"_Please, Artemis,_" he whines pitifully.

"_Please, Dick,_" Artemis mocks with a smile.

Dick groans before pulling the duvet up over his head.

"_No._"

"_Yes,_" Artemis smirks, "Now get in your chair before I throw you in there."

Dick's head resurfaces from beneath the covers and familiar blue eyes glare at her.

"You're not going to go away are you?"

"Nope," Artemis replies, popping the 'p' enthusiastically.

Getting up, Artemis slings her bag over her shoulder and throws the covers back, exposing Dick to the mid-morning light. He groans and tries to cover his face but Artemis does not relent. Instead, she grabs the idiot by his shoulders and drags him to the edge of the bed (a task that's easier than she would like - he's a lot lighter than he used to be) and gives him a slap at the back of the head. With a grunt, Dick lowers himself into the chair and Artemis helps him untangle his unresponsive limbs and set them straight.

She doesn't miss his wince when he sees his legs which are quickly losing their previously defined muscles and are turning to scrawny and bony appendages. She knows that he sees her flinch.

She's too ashamed to apologize.

When Dick is as comfortably sat as he'll ever be, Artemis wheel's him from the room, down the hallway and stops at the stairs. A large grin forms across her face.

"No, Artemis," Dick warns, realizing what she is about to do, "no, no, no, no, no!"

"Oh, yes!" she squeals as she pushes forward excitedly and they go down the stairs in a bumpy, raucous fashion.

Artemis' laughs ring out through the large room and drown out Dick's panicked yelps as he grips the armrests in terror. They reach the bottom with another almighty lurch and find a disapproving Alfred, who's trying his very hardest not to smile.

"If you would please refrain from trying to kill Master Richard, Miss Artemis, that would be appreciated," he says with a withering stare.

Artemis just smiles and pats Dick on the shoulder.

"Don't worry, Alfred," she reassures him, "he loves it really."

Dick shoots her a glare from over his shoulder and crosses his arms over his chest. He pouts but says nothing. Artemis smirks.

She wheels him out of the front door, deciding to take him around the lavish grounds surrounding the Manor. She reckons that he needs some fresh air. The garden will have to do - anywhere else is too far away.

The pair fall into a comfortable silence as Artemis takes him down one of the numerous pathways that snake around the fragrant flowerbeds. The grass and foliage are wet from the rain that fell in the night and, looking at the sky, Artemis thinks that it may unleash another torrent sometime soon. She doesn't talk, she doesn't feel she needs to.

After roughly a half-hour or so, the clouds do exactly what she had feared. Rain falls in sheets and Artemis breaks into a quick jog, pushing a complaining Dick in front of her, into the shelter of a few dense Fir trees. The ground is dry here and so Artemis flops down onto the dead pine needles and pulls her camera out to make sure that it has not got wet.

Dick gazes quietly out into the rain and fingers the ugly tartan blanket that is draped over his legs. He smiles a little and this fills Artemis with hope.

"Thanks for not giving up on me, 'Mis," he thanks her quietly.

She smiles, before punching him in the arm.

"No problem, Wonder-boy," she murmurs before standing up.

Turning on the camera, she moves into a half-crouch next to Dick's side and hold it out in front of them, the lens facing their way.

"We'll laugh about this someday," she grins before snapping the shutter.

Bringing the camera back, she takes a look at the photo and smiles warmly.

It's similar to the photo which Dick had taken all those years ago at Gotham Academy. The only changes are the obvious signs of age (Dick had been such a scrawny thing back then) and the fact that this time it is Artemis who is grinning and Dick who has been caught unassuming.

Times have changed and - hell - they've changed more than she'd could ever imagine but Artemis is certain that one day, some day, the two of them will be alright.

* * *

It's been four months since Dick was shot and paralyzed from the waist down and in Tim's opinion, his brother is doing remarkably well.

The first month after the _accident _had been touch-and-go. The shock of losing the use of his legs, and furthermore ending life as he knew it, had taken its toll on Dick and so he had spent the first couple of weeks a recluse. He never left his room and seemed to be perfectly content with letting his own self-pity swallow him whole.

Tim can't blame him. He can't even imagine never being able to walk again. The very thought is daunting in itself and must be ten times worse for Dick - who had, up 'til then, been _flying _his entire life.

He would never do the quadruple somersault again.

After it became evident that his brother's attitude towards his new life were not improving, Tim had taken it upon himself, along with Barbara, Artemis, Conner and a few others, to cheer him up and bring back the _old _Dick. The one who talked too much, smiled more often and used too many puns.

With slow, patient and steady progress, his brother gradually came to accept that the wheelchair by his bedside would not go away and actually needed to be _used _every once in a while.

Now, four months A.P (After Paralysis), the former circus-kid is cheerful again. Tim's accepted by now that maybe the _old _Dick will never come back but that's okay if it means that there's a _new _Dick Grayson in town (one that still flirts with Barbara as if there's no tomorrow).

Four months on and Tim still doesn't think he'll ever get used to his idiot of a big brother calling him home from the Watchtower, insisting it's of the utmost importance, before showing off a new wheelie or spin he has now mastered in his chair.

Still, it keeps him occupied.

Keeping Dick busy is proving to be a menace. He can't keep still, even if he's confined to a chair. About three weeks ago, Bruce had insisted that even though Dick would never crime fight again, he should still stay in shape and keep up his upper-body strength.

Surprisingly, Dick had agreed enthusiastically and that was the day the training room had been converted into a jungle gym. Dick would have to navigate his way through the hanging equipment with only his arms.

Tim had had to join in. It had looked so fun. Turns out it's a lot harder than first thought.

"Yoo-hoo," a hand wave in front of his face, snapping Tim out from his thoughts, "You in there, Timmy?"

"...Yep," he manages, coming back to reality.

He and Dick are in the Batcave and it's a late Saturday night. To be honest, Tim would rather be out on patrol with Bruce but after a run in with Harley's mallet that left his radius bone painfully broken, he's stuck monitoring the batcomputer with his brother.

Recently, Dick has begun helping out with the crime-fighting in Gotham (much to Bruce and Alfred's immense displeasure) by taking up his old interest in technology. Currently, he's monitoring the entirety of Gotham through every security camera in the city. This way, he can spot a crime practically before it happens and then radio Batman to take care of it.

It's not as exciting as taking an unauthorised skydive from the Gotham Life building but at least he's enjoying it.

Personally, Tim is glad to hear his brother's voice over the communicator once more.

With Dick's unparalleled hacking skills, he's branching out and has his eyes and ears in Blüdhaven, Metropolis and Star City too. Tim reckons that pretty soon he'll have the whole of America under his watchful gaze.

It kind of creeps him out a bit. That is some _serious _power. Tim's just glad that it's Dick that's doing this and not someone more..._dangerous._

(Not that Tim doesn't think Dick isn't dangerous - he's actually more in awe of him now than he's ever been. Even more so now than being Robin or Nightwing.)

Fingers click in front of his nose and Tim blinks back into reality once more.

"W-what?" he stutters.

He can't believe that he's zoned out _twice _now.

"I _said,_" Dick grins in the pale fluorescent light, "what are you thinking about?"

Tim contemplates his answer for a moment, watching as Alfred comes down the stone steps with a tray of hot beverages in hand. Tea for Tim, Coffee for Dick.

"I was just wondering if you'd ever think about rejoining the hero community." he says at last.

Alfred shoots him a discouraging glance as he sets the tray down and hands the boys their drinks.

Dick doesn't answer for a while, silently stirring his coffee as he gazes at the many screens before him.

"I was thinking about it," he replies quietly.

A small smile forms on Tim's face before he scalds his tongue on the hot tea and curses profusely, much to Alfred's displeasure. Regaining his composure, hope fills his stomach in a fluttering type of way.

"And?" he prompts.

"And I reckon I'm gonna need a new name," his brother smiles.

Grinning, Tim sets his tea down in order for it to cool off somewhat before chuckling quietly.

"What, 'Computer-man' isn't cutting it for you?"

Dick barks out a familiar laugh that Tim is pleased to say is becoming more and more regular.

"Nah, I was thinking..."

"Yeah?"

"I was thinking 'Prophet'."

A grin forms on Tim's face once more and he swings around in the swivel-chair like he used to when he'd just started out in the Batcave.

_Prophet_. He likes it.

* * *

_Recognized: Batgirl, B-16_

It's with a weary sigh that echoes the state of her fatigued body that Barbara materializes at the Watchtower for her shift of monitor duty. It's not the most thrilling job in the world but it has to be done and is a mandatory part of her co-leadership duties of the Team.

Things had been crazy ever since the Reach Invasion ended almost a full two years ago (it had been crazy before that too but Barbara doesn't like to think about that) and she feels as though she hasn't had one day off the entire time.

(She has, but those times have been filled with studying and library shifts.)

She makes her way tiredly to the living area where she fully intends on collapsing on the comfortable sofa before bringing out the holo-computer, already hoping for a quiet night.

Entering the room, a smile creeps onto her tired features as she spots the familiar unruly jet black hair covering the back of Dick's head. He's got his back to her and is typing a mile-a-minute on the laptop situated on his lap. Silently, Barbara pads up behind him and snakes her arms around his shoulders.

He doesn't start, instead turning his head to face her with a lazy grin. His shades have slipped halfway down his nose, revealing his sparkling blue eyes, and Barbara would warn him about secret identities if there were anyone here. Besides, she's always liked his eyes.

"You need to work on your stealth BG," he chuckles, "I could hear you halfway down the hall."

Barbara rolls her eyes. He hasn't changed one bit and she's glad for it. He's still the hard-working leader he was two years ago. She's even grown used to seeing him in the wheelchair now - it's been a year since that night in Blüdhaven and Barbara feels that only recently have things returned to a sort of normalcy.

She kisses him lightly on the cheek, sweet and tender, before she withdraws and goes to sit next to his chair on the sofa.

"Monitor duty?" he asks.

"Mmm," she hums in reply, her voice drained.

She's been on her toes all day. It's a Saturday so she had an early morning shift at the library before training, and later a mission to Peru with the Team. Arriving in Gotham late, her night is filled by patrol of her home city with Batman and Robin before Tim then joins her in Blüdhaven for a quick round-up. She stopped being accompanied by Artemis in her customized Nightwing costume (apparently finger stripes were the new sexy) after the former Archer had resumed her work as Tigress and had returned to Star City temporarily to help Green Arrow train an aspiring archer by the name of Mia Dearden.

"Are you alright?" Dick asks, concerned, "You look distracted."

"Mmm," she murmurs again, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

"Well get _tracted _or you'll have a buttload of work to do in the morning and we both know you're not a morning-"

"Alright, alright!" Barbara exclaims, interrupting her boyfriend.

She opens her eyes and smiles at Dick. She's glad to hear his casual mincing of the English language but is sad to see that those pesky glasses have been pushed up and in front of his eyes again. He's gone back to furiously typing on the fast-wearing keyboard of his beloved computer.

The two are practically inseparable. It's like a love story.

If Barbara remembers correctly, it's been eight months since Dick started out as the 'Prophet', renowned and technical genius, all-seeing eye over, well, _everything. _Furthermore, it's been four months since he returned to the Team once more under his new moniker.

He'd taken up Mal's old job of Mission Controller at the Watchtower, organising and relaying the Team exactly where they are needed. He even does so with the League sometimes. Barbara is very proud of him.

Sighing, the Redhead brings up the holo-computer and sets to work reading and interpreting all the mission debriefings from the past month. Exciting. _Not. _Fortunately for Barbara, she's used to dreary data-collecting from the library and so she pushes through the fatigue to make sure her job gets done and she can go home.

"What's for dinner tonight, Babs?" Dick asks her absently as he types.

Barbara sighs resignedly but there's mirth in her eyes.

"Nothing if I don't finish up this report so shut up."

"Ooh, touchy," Dick grins and pokes her in the shoulder.

Playfully, Barbara slaps his hand away and goes back to reading.

"I'm warning you, Grayson," she chides, "if you don't behave yourself then you'll starve."

"I can cook you know," Dick feigns hurt.

"I know," Barbara smirks, "But you just want my famous lasagna."

"Not true."

"Yes too."

"No."

"Stop it now, Dick."

"That's not what you said last night."

Heat creeping up her cheeks, Batgirl turns to face Prophet with an incredulous expression on her face.

"Really?" she raises a mischievous eyebrow, "was that really necessary?"

"I like to think it was perfectly necessary."

Dick is grinning again and Barbara can't help but grin back. It's been hard and bitter and the two of them have almost given up too many times but despite it all, they're still together and Barbara wouldn't have it any other way.

"So what _are _we having lasagna tonight?"

With a weary chuckle, she silences him with a kiss.

He doesn't complain.

* * *

Dick is embarrassed. Actually, _fuck that_, he's totally and completely humiliated. He can't pretend that just because he has accepted that he will never walk again, everything is easy. It's not. Actually, it's still sometimes very depressing but he doesn't like to think about that because crying about it is not going to help him any time soon.

Dick has always been a largely independent person. Even now, in the wheelchair, he insists on doing everything himself without any help.

He could do with some help right now.

Seeing as he spent a lot of time in the Batcave, Dick had taken to using the vast and largely _unused _communal showers adjacent to the training room to wash himself as he found it easier to navigate the chair around (rather than his small en-suite upstairs).

When he'd entered the shower room, it had only been he and Alfred at home, and the latter had currently been preparing that night's roast. It's been an hour since then.

He'd taken to just sitting under the shower head and letting the water cascade over his shoulders, even long after the last trace of soap has been washed down the drain. He finds it oddly soothing.

At some point, Dick decided to shut off the water - dinner must have been ready soon. It's at that point that he sincerely wished he'd told Alfred where he was going.

Currently, Dick is slumped, still in the shower room, against the tiled wall. His naked body is still wet but now he's quite cold. At the end of the stall lies his wheelchair, on it's side, the seat itself sopping wet. On his way back to the chair after shutting off the water, Dick had slipped on the wet ground and had sent the chair spiraling out of control.

Not only had his nice, dry clothes been flung into a puddle where they absorbed the wet faster than he could pick them up, but the wheelchair's brakes had failed, rendering it useless to him.

He'd been complaining to Bruce about the dodgy brakes for the past month but not once had he bothered to take the time to sort them out. Karma is a bitch.

Finally giving up on repairing the chair without any tools, Dick had dragged himself back to the middle of the room. Right now, he just didn't have the energy: he'd been up all night guiding Batman through Gotham's sewers on the hunt for Killer Croc and can't actually remember whether he ate the sandwiches which Alfred had graciously made for him or not. Not good.

He's starting to shiver now but Dick makes no attempt to move. He doesn't fancy dragging himself out of the shower room and through the Batcave naked. Not only would Jason never let him live it down if he caught wind of such an event but Dick is too exhausted right now to even bother continuing his calls for assistance (he'd stopped after half an hour as his throat had become hoarse).

It's roughly five or ten minutes later, give or take, when Dick just hears the footsteps hurrying down the staircase over his chattering teeth.

"Dick?" he hears a voice call and relief floods into his veins like fire as he recognises the voice's owner.

"Bruce!" he calls back, voice rough.

"Dick?" he hears again, "where are you?"

Dick sneezes.

"In the showers!" he replies, finally.

The scurrying footsteps get louder and change in sound as the floor changes to tiles beneath the feet. The loafers squeak on the wet ground before they come to a halt.

Dick spots Bruce and offers him a small smile.

"Hey," he murmurs with a small wave.

Dick watches as Bruce stares at him, shivering and exposed, and then the feeble wheelchair, defeated and laying on its side. Wordlessly, he disappears for a moment before returning with a towel.

Gingerly, Bruce drapes the towel around him, trying not to get it wet, before lifting him up, embarrassingly easily, into his arms.

"Are you alright Dick?" he asks, concern evident, "how long have you been down here?"

Dick sneezes again and smiles sleepily.

"About an hour," he manages around a yawn.

"C'mon, Chum," Bruce smiles at him before turning around and heading out of the bathroom.

"Where are we going?" Dick asks, fully aware that he is clothed only in a towel.

"Well first you're going to get dressed," Bruce tells him, "then you're going to eat. _And then _we're going to see what we can do about this cold you've developed."

"I haven't got a cold!" Dick exclaims defensively.

He sneezes. Once, twice, three times. He wipes the snot on the towel and wrinkles his nose in disgust. _Okay, _maybe he does.

"Hey, Bruce?" he pipes up as they begin the ascent up the stairs.

"Yes, Dick?"

"Thanks."

Bruce smiles down at him.

"No problem, Chum."

Dick smiles to himself and lets himself be carried all the way to his room. To heck with independence. Sometimes he _needs _help. Even if he is too stubborn to admit it most of the time.

The road to recovery has been a treacherous one and honestly? Dick had been all for abandoning the journey at least a dozen times ever since it began but it's not so bad now. He feels _content _even.

Maybe life _can't _be perfect, but this right here is pretty damn close.

He sneezes again.

More or less, anyway.

* * *

**Constructive Criticism is appreciated.**


	2. trouble

**2: The one where Dick gets in trouble and sleeps a lot**

**(Warnings for violence)**

* * *

Living life wheelchair-bound becomes easier and easier the more time passes. It's been a year and a half, thereabouts, since he first begrudgingly took to the chair and Dick can finally say that he's comfortable.

Not that he hasn't had to make some drastic changes to get to where he is now.

After the Accident Dick had been forced to move back into the Manor temporarily because his old apartment in Blüdhaven was too small for his new set of wheels. It hadn't been bad at first. It was definitely nice to be able to spend more time with Tim and it was extra convenient that the Batcave and his work as Prophet was only an elevator away from his room. However, it hadn't taken long for he and Bruce to start butting heads again and he knew he had to go. It wasn't that he disliked Bruce – in fact he loved the stubborn asshole who had raised him – but their disagreements made evening dinners awkward and work in the Batcave colder than usual.

He had, however, lasted longer in the Manor than he thought he would. Inevitably, he moved out to the Wayne Penthouse in Gotham's inner city. Initially, Dick had been put off the idea of living in the penthouse because he felt like he was still being coddled by Bruce, too close for his liking. He couldn't deny that that penthouse fitted his needs perfectly though. It is large, spacious and well equipped with everything needed to make his life easier and more comfortable. Not to mention the express elevator down to the secret bat-bunker that was now his. Prophet's work wouldn't have him lugging himself over to the Batcave every night as the bunker had all the tech he could possibly ask for.

It wasn't long after he moved out of the manor that he re-joined the Team again officially. With Mal having become the new Guardian, a supervisor was needed. And who better to fill the space than a tech-savvy Bat in a wheelchair? The Team welcomed him with open arms and he was more than glad to be back. He'd missed it.

He didn't however, miss monitor duty. It's boring, dreary, and seems to drag on indefinitely.

Still, Dick knows it's important. It actually gives him time to fill out the Team's mission reports and catalogue them away and he might even have time to squeeze in a game or two of bubble buster here and there. Besides, the League like seeing him around.

He's just finishing up his reports on the Team's latest visit to Rhelasia when a familiar chirp in his ear tells him that someone is trying to contact him.

"Prophet," he confirms after pressing the button on his communicator.

_"__Master Dick, it's Alfred," _comes the old voice from his ear.

"What can I do for you, Alf?" Dick leans back in his chair with a smile.

_"__I just wanted to remind you that Master Bruce is expecting you in the cave tonight."_

Blinking, Dick rubs at his eyes. _That's right_. Bruce wanted his help looking over an old unclosed case that had too many gaps in its info for him to do it on his own. Secretly, Dick was ecstatic to hear that Bruce had _asked him for_ _help._ Yawning, Dick rubs a hand down his face before saving his work and snapping his laptop shut.

"I'm on my way now, Alf," he says, wheeling himself over to the zeta tubes.

_"__I'll hear from you soon then sir."_

'Soon' definitely being the operative word as a moment later he's at the Batcave in a flash of light and only slight disorientation. Zeta Tubes having never really agreed with him. When he was a kid, he'd had vertigo so bad he'd thrown up the first time he ever used one. Now they only make him mildly dizzy at most.

He spots Bruce at the computer and makes his way up all the handy ramps installed just for little old him until he parks next to the older man.

"You're late," is his way of greeting before he brings up the files on the case up on the large screen.

"Am I?" Dick says mildly before wheeling closer.

The glare of the screen against the gloom of the cave has him squinting and he has half the mind to tell Bruce to get some better lighting in the cave. Otherwise, he fears he'll have to get glasses. His eyes are getting strained enough as it is looking at screens all day and night at the Watchtower and in the bunker.

After putting their heads together, they get the case solved in an hour which is perfect timing because it's when they're finishing up that Tim comes down to the cave to get ready for patrol.

"Hey Dick," he greets, "I didn't know you were here,"

"I'm all for the element of surprise," Dick smiles at is brother, "where've you been anyway?"

"Master Tim's been doubling the phone bill yet again," Alfred jokes, coming up behind the teenager.

Tim scowls.

"Ah right," Dick laughs, "how _is Stephanie_?"

Tim's ears turn red and he bustles of to the car without saying anything which makes Dick and Alfred laugh at his fleeing back.

"Y'know, sometimes I think we're too mean to him," he muses.

Alfred raises an eyebrow.

"Speak for yourself, Master Dick."

Dick laughs again as the batmobile revs its engine and speeds its way out of the cave, leaving them in silence.

Dick wheels back to the main computer and puts on his headset, becoming Prophet once more. He directs and advises the dynamic duo throughout their patrol like he used to when he still lived in the manor. He doesn't have to watch their every move but it puts his mind at ease and he can easily lose himself in Tim's banter over the comm. link.

He's so engrossed in Batman and Robin's work that by the time they announce that they're heading back to the cave and Dick signs off, it's three in the morning without him even realising and he's fighting the biggest yawn in existence.

"Tea, Sir?" Alfred offers, having managed to creep up on him in his sleepy state.

"You're a hero, Alf," Dick accepts the cup graciously.

"I do try," the old man smiles, "Will you be staying the night?"

Dick glances at his watch, for the first time realising what time it is, and takes a sip of his tea. It's chamomile which helps sleep come easier. _Sneaky bastard, _Dick thinks with mirth.

"May as well," he says, "not much point going back to the penthouse at this point."

"Very well. Your room has been prepared," Alfred nods as if he had predicted Dick's answer.

After finishing his tea, Dick takes the elevator to the second floor and wheels his way to his old bedroom. True to Alfred's word, his bed is made with fresh sheets that are still warm from the dryer. The butler truly is a blessing. Changing into a spare set of pyjama bottoms kept at the manor for occasions such as this, Dick hoists himself into the warm bed and falls asleep before his head hits the pillow.

* * *

It's light outside when Dick wakes. The sun is streaming in through the curtains he hadn't been bothered to close last night and shines straight in his eyes. Voice still gummy with sleep, Dick groans, feeling like he hasn't had enough sleep. It's a familiar feeling: he's been dealing with it since he was eight years old.

Still, Dick sits up and rubs the sand from his crusty eyes before pulling himself into his chair. It's slightly chilly so Dick throws on an old Hudson Sweater before making his way to the kitchen. Bruce is working today and Tim has school so it's just him and Alfred. Thinking it would be nice to have breakfast – or lunch, depending on the time. Brunch? – with Alfred before leaving for the penthouse, Dick heads downstairs.

Before he can reach the kitchen, he meets Alfred on the way to the dining room who directs him into the large eating area where there is already food laid for him. Orange juice, coffee, tea, bacon, sausages, egg, fried bread, pancakes, fresh fruit – the lot. Alfred is a miracle worker and Dick doesn't think he's ever been given the credit he truly deserves.

Sitting at the table, Dick and Alfred converse in idle chat before the great doorbell chimes and Alfred excuses himself to deal with the visitors. Content, Dick shovels a fried bread sandwich of bacon, egg, sausage and cooked tomatoes into his mouth. This is pure bliss, Dick thinks and he slurps at his coffee.

The bliss is shattered, however, when he hears angry voices coming from the foyer. Craning his neck to try to see out of the dining area, the voices get progressively louder and more aggressive and a scuffling sound can be heard.

"Alfred?" Dick calls, slipping into his wheelchair and making his way to the foyer.

If this is some sort of new way to sell a product nobody wants, Dick knows exactly where he's gonna tell them to shove it.

When he's in the doorway, Dick looks up at Alfred, frozen in shock with a stricken expression, and nine or more men in balaclavas in the entrance way. Not a passive aggressive salesperson then.

"Master Dick," Alfred gasps and the whole room seems to be caught in suspension before it is suddenly broken by a quick movement.

Alfred tries to push the door shut in the men's faces, though they far outmatch his strength and size, and turns his face to Dick's.

"Get out! Run, Master Dick!"

Dick is stuck for a second, stricken with shock before the gravity of what is happening catches up with him when the men's combined strength fling the door open and Alfred goes crashing to the ground. The act puts him into motion and, as much as he hates to leave Alfred behind, Dick has the uneasy inkling that it's not the old butler that they're after.

Faster than he thought possible, Dick turns around and speeds his way back into the dining room. If he can get to the utility room through the kitchen, then there's the back door…but then what? There's nowhere in the manor grounds that he can hide in a wheelchair. He needs to get help. And that means the Batcave.

There's no way for him to get to the elevator which opens back in the foyer so his next course of action has to be the stairs. He can ditch the wheelchair and drag his way down to the Batcave if he has to. Course correcting to the study which he can get to through the living room, Dick's too slow in taking in his surroundings as an almighty weight collides with him and he and the wheelchair go careening off course. Crashing into the wall, the chair topples over and Dick falls to the ground in a heap.

There's a pounding in his head and Dick can feel a wetness in his hair which is dripping down his face. He doesn't have time to tend to it though. He has to get out of here.

Dick only manages to drag himself halfway across the room when he loses his grip and starts getting pulled backwards forcefully. Turning onto his back, Dick can see that two of the men have hold of his ankles and are dragging him towards them. He can't feel their clutches obviously, but he can feel the wicked friction burn where his sweater has risen up on his back.

There's not much he can do until they pull him close enough but when they do, Dick becomes a wild vengeance, lashing out with his fists with practiced ease. He lands a dozen solid hits and the two men holding him go down but before he can do anything else a white hot lashing comes down on his head and he cries out, instantly slumping in his attack. Laying on the floor dazed, Dick can feel, in his dazed state, a pumping flow of wetness in his hair and on his face and then there's the mind-numbing agony in his head that makes him want to vomit. Maybe he does, Dick isn't sure. He's not entirely sure of anything at the moment. Only that something is wrong, and that he hurts like crazy.

Above him, Dick can barely make out with his blurry eyesight a group of figures in black. One of them is holding a large golden statue. There's a lot of red on it and it takes longer than it should for Dick to realise that the red is blood. His blood.

Huh. That's not good.

His vision is fading fast and the figures swarm around him. One of them picks him up and sling him limply over their shoulder and Dick hears a moan of pain. It takes a second for him to realise that it's coming from him.

Groggily, Dick lets them carry him out. He's too numb to lift his head at this point.

Unconsciousness, he decides, sounds nice right about now.

* * *

Consciousness returns in phases. First, Dick feels rough asphalt under him. There are small stones digging into the skin of his cheek and it's very cold. There's a chilly breeze that flutters his hair lazily and the salty brine in it burns his nostrils. Behind him, his hands are secured by something cold, probably metal, probably handcuffs. Fabulous.

Second is the lapping of water and screech of seagulls that, coupled with the salt smell, confirm that he is indeed near the sea somewhere. There's a clanking of metal in the distance and the bobbing clunk of moored boats. The docks then.

Third, and worst of all, comes when Dick shifts slightly and his head explodes in pain. The agony is so much that he retches but the bile burning his throat is nowhere near the pain tearing at his scalp. Weakly, Dick moans and opens his eyes but the world of light and colour is too much so he snaps his eyelids shut and retches again with a groan.

"Hey, Marcel, he's awake," comes a grunting voice and Dick would bet that it comes from one of the guys who grabbed him.

"Yeah, Frank?" comes another, more nasally voice, supposedly 'Marcel', "bring him over 'ere."

Dick can distinguish the sound of heavy footfalls growing closer and closer on the asphalt but he doesn't dare open his eyes. He doesn't think he's ready for that yet.

"Oh gross," complains the 'Frank', "guy's gone and spewed everywhere."

"Is it on 'im?" comes Marcel again.

"Nah, just the ground that I can see."

"Good, I don't wanna smell that shit. Bring him 'ere."

Frank is now so close that Dick can hear his heavy breathing – maybe he's a smoker or just has really bad health, if his heavy footsteps say anything it's that this is one big guy. The thug grasps his hair and gives a yank causing Dick to scream. He's might have blacked out for a moment but he's not sure because he had his eyes closed anyway. Swallowing the bile threatening to spew past his lips, Dick grits his teeth with a whine as Frank drags him by the scalp presumably over to where the other guys are.

Dumping him in a heap, Dick can feel the presence of the other men surround him. He gets a harsh jab in the shoulder which makes him open his eyes. It's not as bright here as they are further inside what would appear to be a dilapidated warehouse at the Gotham Docks. The men surround him in a circle and they have a trash can fire going.

"Shut up with your screaming or I'll clock you one again," the one who poked him threatens.

So that's who hit him. He's tall, thin and gangly which Dick didn't expect, vaguely remembering the impressive size of the statue he was hit with.

"Can it, Harry," says Marcel, who seems to be the one running this gig.

The man nudges Dick in the side with his foot.

"You know why you're here pretty-boy?"

Dick frowns at the nickname but can't make his lips form words. After a while of opening and closing his mouth like a suffocating fish, Dick finally manages to make some vaguely coherent noise.

"R-raans-omm?" he slurs.

"Yeah, _ransom_, that's right," smirks Marcel, "and you're gonna be a good boy and do what you're told or Harry'll give you one again. Okay sweetums?"

Dick doesn't like the condescending tone that Marcel is speaking to him with – he's twenty-one for god's sake – but he nods all the same. Or, tries to nod. Attempts it, fails, and just blinks sluggishly instead.

Marcel seems to understand, thankfully, because he grins under his balaclava and motions to two unnamed men who come up behind him and grab him by the shoulders. Biting back a yell, Dick whines through his teeth at the sudden movement when the men hoist him up and lean him in a sitting position against some old rotting crates.

Sitting up is a nice change over laying on his back because it makes him feel less powerless against the thugs but right now Dick wishes he could just curl up and fall asleep again. He's tired, cold and aching like mad. This is not how he imagined his day going. If it is still that same day that is. The thought has him gazing up at Marcel.

"H-how…long?" he manages to ask around his heavy tongue.

"How long've you been out?" Marcel smirks, "About two days. Harry hit you a _little harder than expected_, didn't you Harry?"

Harry laughed nervously at Marcel's tone but his face said that he'd do it again without hesitation.

"No matter though," continues Marcel, "You're alive aren't you?" he peers at Dick and then laughs, "get some beauty sleep, pretty-boy, you'll want to look good for the ransom video."

Dick tries to glare at him but pinching his eyebrows pulls at his scalp which fucking hurts so he decides to lets his eyelids slip shut instead. He's so, so very tired.

And before long, he's asleep once more.

* * *

The next time Dick wakes, the pain in his head hasn't lessened but he can open his eyes without wanting to throw up and can think relatively clearly.

He's in the same spot that the men left him, propped up against some old crates and the first thing Dick does is catalogue his injuries. There's his head, which is pounding, obviously, but Dick vaguely remembers hitting it twice back at the manor. Once when he fell from his wheelchair and twice when Harry hit him with the statue. Was it on the same side or different sides? Dick can't exactly check with his hands secured behind him which brings him to his next point. He doesn't think the handcuffs have cut into his wrists but they're extraordinarily tight and Dick's fingers are numb and mostly unresponsive when he tries to undo the restraints. Wonderful.

Other than that though, Dick doesn't think he's injured anywhere else. _It could be worse,_ he reminds himself, he's gotten out of tighter spots than this in worse condition plenty of times before. Except, back then he had a pair of functioning legs. He same cannot be said now.

Blowing a piece of hair away from his eyes, Dick looks around at the common area that the thugs have created in the old warehouse. The men can't be that professional, if they were they would have used the opportunity of Dick being unresponsive for two days to get out of Gotham and set up base further away from a chance at rescue. They also would not have revealed their names. Dick can only thank his lucky stars that they're not that clever.

The fire in the trash can has been restocked and burning hotly a short way from Dick which he is thankful for. Gotham's not exactly known for its warm beaches. Especially not in January. There's a set of withering and rickety lounge chairs around the fire that are empty. Casting his eyes around, Dick spots two of the nine men in the warehouse's entrance way smoking a fag each but the rest are nowhere to be seen. Either they've stepped out for a bit or are meeting Bruce for a ransom deal. Dick would prefer the latter but they haven't even made the ransom video that Marcel was talking about yet so he's not getting his hopes up. On one of the empty chairs is a walkie-talkie and Dick contemplates the idea of hacking the frequency and sending a message to the Batcave with his location. Except, he's having trouble feeling his hands and he doubts he'd be able to do it behind his back even if he could.

What Dick needs is to get out of the damn handcuffs and then he maybe has a chance to escape. Before he can come up with a plan though, Marcel and his other buddies are back. Some of them are stumbling slightly and one or two still have half empty beer bottles in their hands. Yeah, definitely not professional.

"Look who's finally awake!" Harry slurs with a nasty smile, gesturing clumsily in his direction.

Marcel smirks and nods his head to Frank and an unknown guy who look like they're sober before making his way over to Dick's spot by the crates.

"Nice nap, sunshine?" he says and Dick glares at him which makes the thug laugh, "it's time for that ransom video. You gonna be able to stay awake for the whole thing?"

Dick throws him a nasty look but Marcel ignores him and hoists him up over one shoulder. It's humiliating and the pain in his head sharpens at the movement but at least it's not as bad as when Frank dragged him by the hair earlier.

It's beginning to darken outside and Marcel deposits him in one of the lounge chairs that has its back away from the entrance way so no one watching the video will be able to tell where they are. Marcel certainly seems to be the only one with brains around here. Frank and the other guy have set up a small camcorder on a tripod and the bigger man moves to stand on one side of his chair, as if the guard him. _As if he could go anywhere any way, _Dick rolls his eyes. The other man stays as they camera man.

Halting on his way the way to the camcorder, Marcel turns around to face Dick and, as if thinking twice about it, pulls out a tiny key that he uses to undo the handcuffs digging into his wrists. Dick gasps once his hands are free and moves them in front of his. They're slightly blue but with a little rubbing the circulation should come back without any complications.

"No funny business now," Marcel warns and Dick rolls his eyes again.

"Yeah, I'm really gonna run away," he sneers.

Marcel snorts and turns to the camera guy.

"Start recording, Andre," he says to him, finally giving him a name, "let's get this show on the road."

"We're recording boss," says Andre.

"Good, good," Marcel muses before turning to face the screen, "Hello, Mister Wayne!" he greets jovially, "I seem to have something you've recently lost."

Dick shakes his head. Marcel might be the smartest out of this troupe but that apparently doesn't exclude him from the cheesy kidnapper stereotype. What a shame.

"Say hello to the camera, sunshine," Marcel continues and it takes a second for Dick to realise that he's talking to him.

Andre angles the camera down so that Dick is in the frame and he can't help but scowl. He doesn't know what he looks like but it can't be good. He can feel the dried blood clotting in his hair and on his face which must make him look like a zombie or something. At least his hands are returning to a healthy pink. Dick sends a silent apology to Bruce who he knows will be watching this before long.

"Not gonna say anythin'?" Marcel pushes but Dick doesn't rise to the bait.

There's no way he can sneak in a few clues about his whereabouts without Marcel being suspicious. If this were a live recording and Bruce was watching right now, he might've been able to blurt his location and have Batman show up in ten minutes. But a pre-recorded message? It'll probably be watched a dozen times by Marcel and his guys for any clues before being sent off.

Therefore, Dick keeps his mouth shut.

"Jolly guy, ain't he?" Marcel jokes coming back into the centre focus of the camera, "Now, Mister Wayne, we're gonna talk about what reward I deserve for finding your _lost property_.

"If I return your _invaluable item, _then I demand a sum of…thirty thousand dollars."

Dick cringes at the sum of money that Marcel asks for but breathes evenly out through his nose. It's not…bad per se. He's been kidnapped for ransom money before and the numbers have been much higher in the past. Maybe value decreases with age. Dick shudders at that thought.

"I'll give you a day to get the dough together before I call you for a pick-up and you can collect your property."

Dick doesn't like how Marcel constantly objectifies him as something that _belongs _to Bruce but now is not the time to complain about it. It's best if he stays quiet and let Marcel have his way. For now, anyway. The only way he can see himself getting out of this is when Marcel and his buddies decide to give his location to Bruce but it's not all a loss. With all his resources, Batman can make sure that any money he parts with will come back to him without the kidnappers getting a single cent.

"And if that's all sorted there's just one last thing, Mister Wayne," Marcel continues to speak, "we're gonna make sure you know we mean business by showing you what gonna happen if you don't pay up."

Alert, Dick looks up in dread at Marcel who's grinning at him slyly. He has time to notice that the camcorder is off the tripod and in Andre's hands for better coverage and movement before there's a strong hand yanking at his shoulder and he's on the floor once more. The same hand pushes him onto his back so that the camera can get a better view of his face and Dick can see Frank coming back over with a rusty car wrench.

Eyes widening, Dick has just enough time to bring his arms up to protect his head when the wrench comes crashing down for the first time. With his head shielded, Frank aims instead at his now unprotected midsection and Dick feels his ribs creak with the harsh force of the blunt object. He cries out in pain but his yelp is cut off as Frank brings the wrench down again yeah, okay, he definitely has some broken ribs now.

Turning over onto his side, Dick curls up in an attempt to protect his battered body but when he moves his arms to pull his legs up, the weapon comes raining down on his forehead and he can't help but let out a choked scream.

"What did I say about being quiet?" Dick hears Harry demand over the thud of metal against his flesh and then there's a pair of boots joining in the attack.

Harry kicks him brutally in the back and Frank continues his assault on his ribs with the car wrench but the hit to his head has him in a daze and everything seems very far away. After what seems like hours, there is finally a reprieve to his pain.

"Alright, that's enough!" yells Marcel who turns to the camera with one last smile, "I'm sure you'll take us seriously now, Mister Wayne," he says before signalling to Andre to stop recording.

Frank and Harry back away from him at Marcel's word and Dick see's the car wrench clatter to the ground before his face. It's stained red and dripping and it reminds Dick of the statue that Harry hit him with back at the manor. Did they leave it there as a message to Bruce, or did they take it to hide the evidence of their attack? Maybe they took it to sell on, it's no doubt valuable even if the red stain won't come out. Dick doesn't know. He doesn't even know why he's thinking about that but it's distracting him from the pain so there's always that.

Dick doesn't pass out after the assault, though he desperately wants to, and instead uses this time to scope out his surroundings once more. Marcel and Andre are busy putting the camera and tripod away and the others start to back off towards the entrance way for another smoke. Dick hears them nonchalantly chat about the latest Gotham Knights game as if they hadn't just taken part in beating a disabled guy bloody. Disgusted, Dick's eyes turn back to the little communal area and his gaze lands on one of the walkie-talkies, now on the floor, just two feet away from his position.

Hope flickers through Dick's mind. His hands are free now and, even through the pain from the beatings, this is his first real chance to get himself out of here. Dragging himself towards the walkie-talkie as silently as he can, Dick reaches out and fumbles with the device in his numb fingers.

He's hacked police communications a thousand times plus one and if that were advanced calculus, then this is as easy as finding the square root of four. _If he can get his head screwed back on right that is. _Currently it's thumping so hard that it feels like his eyeballs might pop out. Finding the frequency for the Batcave communicators is as easy as it is familiar but there's no one on the other line.

"Batman, are you receiving me?" Dick whispers urgently, "Batman? _Alfred?"_

Panic begins to set deep in his stomach and spreads outwards in his body in a numbing wave. Marcel and Andre are almost done with the camera and it's any moment now that he gets spotted. Switching tactics, Dick looks for a different frequency and prays someone is listening this time.

"Prophet to Watchtower, do you read me?" he says the moment it connects.

"This is Aqualad, Prophet, what seems to be the problem?"

Dick almost sobs when he hears that familiar calm voice. His relief is short lived however when he looks up to see that Marcel has spotted him, a look of pure fury on his rat-like face. Dread choking his words, Dick stumbles as he recites his location as quickly as possible. He has just enough time to scramble the frequency so that the thugs don't find out who he contacted before there's a calloused fist around his throat.

Dick is too weak to fight as Marcel lifts him up into the air and slams him into the wall, all the while with his hand wrapped around his neck. Dick chokes from the force and immediately starts gasping for breath. Marcel leans his face in so close to Dick's that the only oxygen that he can draw in is the hot, rancid air from the thug's lungs. His head is swimming from the pain and his ribs creak dangerously from the sharp movement.

"Who did you contact?" Marcel yells into his face, "Answer me!"

Dick gurgles on what he might guess is blood and Marcel loosens his grip by a fraction.

"N-nobody," Dick stutters, "I don't kn-know how to work it. I was just tryin-"

"-Bullshit," Marcel snarls, "you're and ex-cop. You know how these things work!"

"I p-promise I didn't," Dick chokes because Marcel has tightened his grip once more, "I dunno how-"

With a roar, Marcel throws Dick to the hard ground and he yelps in pain as his battered body makes contact with the concrete. Shaking his head a few times like a lion to calm himself down, Marcel paces for a while before stopping to glare at Andre.

"You," he says suddenly, "show the escape artist what happens when he tries to call for help."

"Sure thing, Boss," Andre says and cracks his knuckles with a smile.

Eyes widening at the prospect of a beating that he probably won't survive, Dick then closes his eyes tightly when the long, thin man picks up the bloodstained wrench that Frank used before. Expecting a burst of pain any second now, Dick is surprised when it doesn't come and opens his eyes to the chaotic scene before him.

It seems that Kaldur understood his garbled speech over the walkie-talkie as the team is here. Superboy and Kid Flash have made fast work of Marcel and Andre and Aqualad and Lagoon Boy are tying up the other men at the waterfront. Gently, Dick is lifted into strong arms and he smiles weakly at the concerned face hovering above his own.

"Thanks for turning up," he manages over a glob of blood.

Conner shakes his head in disbelief.

"You have got to stop getting into trouble_. Seriously_."

Dick smiles tiredly and opens his mouth to reply with something witty and sarcastic but instead a yawn comes out and the gentle swaying motion of Conner carrying him lulls him into a painful and battered sleep.

* * *

When Dick comes to, he's surrounded by the worryingly familiar white walls of the watchtower med bay. To his right sights Conner, dozing off on the visitor's stool. He can't feel any pain but then he can't really feel much of anything so Dick guesses he has the drugs to thank for that. Bless modern medicine. Looking up at Conner's snoring face, Dick snorts quietly at the sight.

At the sound, Conner's eyes instantly snap open and meet Dick's.

"Mornin'," Dick grins goofily.

"You know, you'd be a lot less trouble if I killed you right?" Conner says monotonously.

Dick fakes mock hurt and pouts.

"What did I ever do to deserve this treatment?" he protests with a small laugh that reminds him of his damaged ribs all too well.

Conner refrains from answering, which Dick knows is taking a lot of strength, and instead stands up and stretches his arms.

"I should call the Team in, they've been asking to see you," he says before looking back at Dick, "if you're up for it."

"Go on," Dick smiles tiredly, "unleash hell."

Then the Team comes pouring in and words cannot express how much he loves this rag-tag bunch of idiots as they crowd around his bed and worry and fret over his well-being and make jokes and fill the room with happy noise. Dick tries to answer their questions, he really does, but after the fifth inquiry from Bart alone, he's battling a yawn and a few minutes later he's asleep again.

He loves them, he really does, but right now, Dick prefers unconsciousness.

When he awakes for the second time, Dick figures it's a few hours after the Team came to visit him. He has no way of really telling that for sure. There's no keeping time when in space but it's just an inkling he has.

Another of Dick's inklings is how he can tell that he's being watched. The lights are off in his area of the med bay, presumably to help him sleep, and Dick squints at the shadows blearily blinking away the sleep in his eyes. The familiar black shape of cape and cowl stands out from the medical machinery in the gloom and Dick smiles tiredly at his visitor.

"Hey," says Dick, closing his eyes again, "how long have you been standing there?"

He can hear the black shape shifts and suddenly feel Batman's presence at his bedside.

"Not long," is the reply he eventually gets.

'Not long' most probably meaning that he's been there for a few hours at least.

They are quiet for a while but it's a nice silence. They've always said a lot to each other in the silence and Dick knows it's where he understands Bruce the best, as opposed to when they have their loud and angry shouting matches.

"You should be more carefu-"

"Yeah, yeah – not now," Dick interrupts him, "wait until the morning."

"_It is_ morning-" Bruce tries but Dick is having none of it.

"Nope," he shushes, "let me sleep, m'kay?"

His voice is already gummy with exhaustion but just before he drifts off again he feels a gloved hand in his that squeezes his fingers reassuringly. Dick squeezes back with a small smile.

"You're a big softy, y'know that, right?" he mumbles and Bruce withdraws his hand much to Dick's disappointment.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Dick barks out a laugh before doubling over and wheezing.

_Ah. That'd be the ribs._

It doesn't stop him from smiling.

* * *

**This took me so long to write I s2g.**


End file.
